


Deadeye

by aenor_llelo, Alderous, InvaluableOracle, Jaybird314



Series: For A Diamond Is A Marveled Thing [22]
Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: A Little Existential Horror. As A Treat, Body Horror, Brain Damage, Calling Lars A Zombie But It's Not A Joke, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Death! It's Horrifying, Gemsong, Gen, Glasses, Lars Lore, Nightmares, Pink Lars Barriga, Resurrection, Trans Lars (Steven Universe), Unreliable Narrator, We Gave The Barrigas A Pet Cat, just a bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26956072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aenor_llelo/pseuds/aenor_llelo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alderous/pseuds/Alderous, https://archiveofourown.org/users/InvaluableOracle/pseuds/InvaluableOracle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaybird314/pseuds/Jaybird314
Summary: Deadeye-A wooden disk used in the rigging of traditional sailing ships, used to direct lines, and in older ships even change direction.-An expert marksman.orLars and the stars and the deadly bizarre.
Relationships: Dante Barriga & Lars Barriga, Lars Barriga & Connie Maheswaran & Steven Universe, Lars Barriga & Martha Barriga, Lars Barriga & Sadie Miller, Lars Barriga & Steven Universe, Lars Barriga/Steven Universe
Series: For A Diamond Is A Marveled Thing [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604959
Comments: 78
Kudos: 277





	1. Hindsight is 20/5

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of a series. It is written with the understanding you have read the previous parts.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lars of the Stars, what do your dead eyes see?

* * *

Most days, he tries not to notice it. Most days he _doesn't_ notice it.

But sometimes he wonders, if there's a word for it.

Sadie called it his dead eye, but that's not quite right. Sometimes, it feels just a little too _alive._

It isn't damaged, but it isn't quite _right_ either.

Dead eyed, dead eye, _deadeye_.

(Is there a word for the exact polar opposite of blind? He's asking for a friend.)

He doesn't notice, until he does.

He doesn't _see_ , until he does.

He sees the sun through a window, and then he doesn't- he sees a viciously dissected bridge of light distorted on a rainbow of glass, and dust on the air like a million million stars.

(And then he doesn't.)

He sees a leaf on the sidewalk, and then he doesn't- he sees veins and wax and the veining marbled cracks of individual pebbles on concrete.

(And then he doesn't.)

He sees the empty air, and then he doesn't- floating shapes dance along his vision. Like butterflies, glistening with eternal moonlight. They linger in his ship, they linger in his house, they linger in the corners of his eye and when they pass over his face they _blind_ him.

Steven says that they're called fly-by-nights. He says that they don't exist on the human visual spectrum.

A Diamond's face frowns, concerned, and asks how Lars knows about them. Lars blinks, confused, and says he doesn't.

(He doesn't, until he does.)

He sees Sadie on the countless numbered little moments they never quite got back together, and then he doesn't- he sees the dull gloss of keratin and the painted roughness of hair dye and the ephemeral ghost of stripes dancing along human skin.

Lars sees Sadie, and then he doesn't.

Sadie sees him, and then she doesn't.

It's okay. It's okay.

(It's not.)

He sees Dante and Martha Barriga, and then he doesn't- he sees the weave of his mother's dress, the wool of his father's jacket. The faded smudge of glasses, the chip of paint against metal frames, the subtle shift of crease and elasticity over joint and hand and smile and brow- the march of time that slowly but surely maps a little more on their faces every day. 

He sees.

(He doesn't. _He doesn't, he can't._)

Lars looks at the mirror, and then he doesn't.

He sees the prism of glass- the silver of aluminum, the scatter of green. He sees the lion's-mane hair texture that doesn't belong to any of his parents, that doesn't belong to the baby pictures on the wall.

He sees the ghost of stripes that snake his body, lingering as they never did in life with the impossible opalescence of ichor and Diamond's fire. He sees the dull keloid shine of a fault line on his skull, warping his skin with all the subtlety of a twisted knot of rotted wood- a wreckage no human eye will ever see.

He sees Lars Barriga, until he doesn't.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~did someone say "spiritual successor to _like a word, a sound, a song?_ "~~


	2. Hello My Old Heart, How Have You Been

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Are you still there inside my chest?_   
>  _I've been so worried, you've been so still,_   
>  _barely beating at all._

* * *

Lars finds out, two weeks after the first time he returns to Earth, that he died on October 4, 2004.

...The thing about explosions is that they don't actually sound like anything. Not up close.

Not point blank.

An explosion is a disruption- a sudden absence, a lightness of the head, robbed of everything as sound bleeds red out of the ears, ringing like a struck bell.

It's the unsteady, unhinged headache on his eye socket, a languidness of vision spiraling out of control, the careening arc of the firecracker sensation shattering in his skull.

(It's happened once before. He was a little kid at his cousin's house and a firecracker went off too close to his face. Strange, how this drastic sort of pain can be reduced to firecrackers. He can't remember his cousin's name. He can't remember if he should. He can't remember why he's thinking about firecrackers.)

He thought he'd scream more, but he doesn't. The sound doesn't come out something, something, something's wrong with his mouth, he can't think straight-

-and his hands are burning up (did the rock break in his hands? ...Why was he holding that-)

Lars dies on October 4, 2004. 

He does not die with fear, or regrets, or any meaningful parting words.

He dies confused- scattered and shattered and distractedly thinking of firecrackers.

There's a split second wet crunch blended with an vague popping noise. The pressure on his eye suddenly disappears. His neck snags on the sharper part of the pillar as he crashes into it, and somewhere among everything else he can't quite think, he's absently noting that this should probably hurt more.

Something caves on the back of his head, pushing a last jagged rattle from his mouth and he

wakes up in his parents' attic, staring at an old calendar on the wall.

He takes a long, slow breath.

Ten seconds pass.

He takes a long, slow breath. (He can't feel his legs.)

Ten seconds pass.

He takes a long, slow breath. (He can't get up.)

Ten seconds pass.

He takes a long, slow breath. 

(He can't move his fucking arms, his jaw's all loose and his dead eye _fucking hurts and he can't move-_ )

Somewhere around the fourth round, he distantly becomes aware that this is a panic attack.

...It doesn't feel like one.

He hyperventilates- his breath only significant in that it _visibly breathes_. Slow and steady, he's _trying to breathe,_ but there's this morbid fucking clicking _gasping rattle that won't go any faster and he can't fucking move._

(God, can't he just fucking _breathe_ a second faster?)

His dead eye spasms in its socket. The ghost echo of fly-by-nights flood his room like butterflies with a light his living eye will never quite see and _he can't move._

Barely breathing, barely blinking, he stares at the rafters and counts the seconds.

He lies in his bed- still as the grave, cold as death, heart hammering in his chest at an eternal 16 beats per minute.

* * *


	3. And Faces Fly-By-Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His name is Lars of the Stars.

* * *

The Lieutenant Admiral, Lars of the Stars, is a hard man to look at. At least that's how it is for Gems.

He knows. He can tell.

He can tell in the way a new Gem staggers back, looking at him. He can tell in the way fly-by-nights follow him, even in the cold reaches of space.

He sees it when he catches his own reflection against the glass. Staring at himself in the unintended mirror and it just flutters over, shooting sparks off into his brain like exploding colors, almost knocking him to the ground.

His body half glowing with his own shock around the epicenter of his buzzing eye.

It's the eye. The _dead eye._ The way amaranthine scatters with pink. A clean line bisecting it, covering the jagged canyon just barely hiding beneath, one that shattered from his forehead to his jaw.

In the bone shards, stark shadows under his skin. Shining, sparking, skull lighting up like a damn rave.

The striping of his skin scatters like a supernova around a ghostly eye, and illuminating through the cover of darkness in the room, a dead face looms back at him.

And when he looks around him, that's all there is. A dead man walking and a thousand fluttering pairs of wings like vultures, watching, waiting, _wanting._

The night of space looks like cerise, and the stars are shimmering like butterflies.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~He wonders how Steven can even stand to look at him sometimes.~~


	4. File Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It just grows and grows.

* * *

He's pretty sure some of his teeth came back wrong.

A good chunk of everything in the right side of his mouth is definitely pointier than it used to be, and those canines there are looking a little more vampire than they should. (Fangs, rattling in his skull.)

It's fine. _It's fine_. Just kind of a bitch to talk with those pointy bastards in his mouth. His face is all _slow_ on that side too- always half a second behind the rest of him. It's fucking inconvenient, is what it is. Makes him sound like a drunk hobo if he's not careful about it. (Like a dead man walking. Don't think about it.)

(Don't think about it.)

It's not so bad. Really, it's not.

It's not

He was trying to cut his nails, wasn't he?

Right. Yeah. That. He has one bitch of an eye headache and he's trying to cut his nails.

At some point he gave up on _cutting_ them. They started growing in too thick to cut normally, so now he just files them. It's slow going, but it's _going_ at least.

It's just kind of weird. He thought he'd be growing _less_ after his death, but that wasn't quite right. He'd _kept_ growing. He got taller, his hair grew longer, he even started getting a _beard_ , for fucks sake! He didn't think _that_ would ever happen.

It's just kind of weird. The idea that he can still change, even like this.

An idea that takes up so much of his head that he doesn't quite pay attention sometimes, and he doesn't realize that nail files aren't quite working anymore until he's scratched a literal hole into them with the dull point of nails starting to curl like claws.

* * *


	5. You Start To See Someone Else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you see enough stuff, you start to get a god damn headache.

* * *

His head hurts sometimes.

Maybe he's kind of an idiot, but it might be the eye. The dead eye. (A lot of things come back to that dead eye.)

It's not like he has any vision _problems._ It's fine- better than fine, really.

But having two equally good eyes doesn't mean one eye isn't... _more equal_ than the other.

He leans into the squint of his dead eye with a wry wink, and tries to keep his mind off the headache it doesn't quite keep away, of the colors he can't quite remember.

=<>=

He opens an eye to Steven's gentle nudge. "Whassit."

White claws click on... a small box? "I'd like to see if it fits."

The not-quite-claws on Lars' own hands snag just a little bit on the box as he takes it. (Maybe he could paint them sometime.) "What is this?" he reflexively jokes. "A friendship bracelet?"

"Well- no," Steven answers completely seriously, "but I thought it might be something nice."

It is not, in fact, a friendship bracelet.

"Steven, I don't need glasses."

Steven hums a little skeptically to himself. "I think you kinda do? I know your eyes aren't _bad_ -"

"My eyes are doing a little _too_ well if you ask me-"

"I know you have migraines, Lars."

_Fuck._

"Shit, I-" Lars' mouth twitches a little wrong before falling back into itself. "-have you been _feeling_ that?"

"Not the pain," Steven softly deflects. "But I can feel it wear you down, sometimes. It's like a static behind your voice." His song trails quiet. "I know it hurts."

Lars briefly scruffs him by his tie, just enough to prompt a sharp _yip_ from Steven. "You fucking stop that. 's not your fault. Just, uh- not sure how glasses are gonna help me out?"

"Oh! Yeah." Steven just barely smiles again. "Connie told me about it? She had migraine glasses as a kid, they're kinda tinted to change the light entering your eyes so it can't hurt as bad. I did, uh- I did do something a little different, though." He points at the lens.

Either half of it could have passed for round sunglasses, but the full picture didn't quite cut it. One lens is pink and the other is almost completely blinded, even shielded on the side.

"I had the lens on your right eye blacked out? I know you can't exactly turn it off, so- thought if might help."

"Huh." Lars puts it on, blinking harshly to himself a few times with the change. "Oh, wow. Yeah, that kind of does help, holy shit." He dares to look into the mirror, and the lanky, long haired, bespectacled shape staring back at him. " _Dear god._ I take it back, this is terrible, I look like my mother."

"Be nice," Steven scolds like he has the right, "your mother is very lovely. It doesn't look _terrible_. It's fine."

"Ugh, you _would_ say that over anything in pink."

"It's kinda cute! Reminds me of when Connie was a kid."

"I look like a fucking hippie, Steven."

"You don't need to wear it _all_ the time," Steven concedes. "Just give your eyes a break when you're not at work. Besides," a trill creeps into his voice, the _big bastard_ , " _I_ think you look very distinguished."

Lars sits there with a vague, ornery hum.

"Fuck you," he bites out. "Fuck you, you are so fucking nice to me, I hate you, thanks for the glasses and I will wear them forever." He closes the glasses case with a deliberate click. "But fuck you."

"Anytime, Stars."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Migraine glasses are tinted pink/red, just like connie's og glasses from the show.


	6. Cotton Candy Bread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Lars comes home.

* * *

He'd told Sadie once that he'd gotten the Big Donut job to pay for hormone meds. It wasn't wrong.

It was that, and... one other reason.

He was 14 when he'd found a dirty, wobbly kitten under a box next to the dumpster. He'd managed to keep it in his closet for a whole week before his parents found out where the family leftovers were going.

The Barriga family cannot afford a cat.

Oh, they weren't ever _poor._ But it was always close. Their clothes all second-hand, their lovely old house and nice kitchen things relics of a slightly easier time. And they could not afford a cat.

But maybe _Lars_ could.

So he worked for it. He worked for it, and with every trip he got his meds it was hidden under a mountain of cat food and all the little treats his parents can't afford to give. Cat food, for a cat named Food. (He panicked, okay?)

And sometimes, some days, that little bastard cat is the only thing that got him out of bed.

And sometimes, some days, he's a dead man walking in the cold, cold cavern of space. He's realizing he might never come home again. He's realizing that his own death just signed his draft for war he was never supposed to have a part in, he might never see any of his friends _ever, ever_ _again and fuck being cool, fuck everything else, he just wants his stupid wobbly cat._

He dies in October. It's almost December when he finds his way back to Earth.

He hugs his parents, lies that he'll be more hungry tomorrow, and plays dead in the attic.

And his cat- his dumb wobbly cat- it hobbles over and trips on his hair, licking at it like his pink everything is going to suddenly taste like all the yogurt it likes to steal.

He grabs a crooked cat with with his crooked arms, and his dead eye twitches until morning.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a framed picture of a cat in the barriga's house! so we decided they have a cat.
> 
> ~~we made the mistake of letting the discord name the cat~~


	7. There Once Was A Crooked Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ataxia, a manifestation of dysfunction in the nervous system which results in uncoordinated movements, abnormal gait and speech, and unusual eye movements. It can be localized to one side of the body, or both. It can occur after brain injuries, and also in cerebellar hypoplasia (CH), a neurological condition in which the cerebellum is smaller than usual or not completely developed. CH is well documented in domestic animals such as dogs and cats, occasionally known as "wobbly cat syndrome"._

* * *

Food is a cat.

Food likes to jump, but isn't very good at it. Food will try to jump on the couch and fall as she lands.

Food has trouble walking sometimes. Food will sometimes trip on nothing, or walk into things. Food will sometimes lean too much and fall over, or move her head alot for no reason.

Food does not really care about this, because Food is happy. Food has many good things to eat. Food has a nice place to sleep.

Food has a person.

Person is tall and twiggy and hair that is fluffy and cotton like the fluffy cotton bread he kneads with big wide paws. Person's nest is old and cluttered and there are two older persons that smell like Person. They smile and pet Food, but they are not Person.

Person will let Food sit on the counter. Person will give Food the wet circle food and bread and fish and yogurt things, and gives Food a smaller nest to sleep in. Person gives good things to scratch and good noises to play with, and will let Food sit on his shoulders or carry her in his paws when she does not want to walk.

Sometimes Person will sit in his nest and not get up and hold Food a little too tight, but that is alright because he is Person. Person will always love Food even if he is sad. So Food will always love Person even when her head moves too much and walks into walls and she trips on nothing.

Person likes to make breads. He makes breads and then looks at them sadly and shares them with no one except for Food.

One day Person made a bread that he did not share with Food. He put it in a box, gave Food a nervous pet, and left the house.

Person did not come back.

Person was not outside. Person was not in nest. Person was not on counter.

The nest people started to feed Food when Person did not come back. They stopped feeding her wet circle food and gave her dry tiny food. They did not feed Food bread and fish and yogurt things, they do not play with Food.

It makes her looks outside and want to live by the sea, the way she did as a kit. That was how she lived before she met Person. She could do so again. She does not need to stay in this nest with these people.

But they belong to Person. And Person is gone.

So she will stay for Person.

So she did. She stays even when they cannot play with her. She stays when they hold her a little wrong, when they do not want to carry her. She stays when the food is wrong, and when they are sad, because they belong to Person, and he is gone.

And then Person came back.

Person came back, and he smells like blood and flowers. It took a while before he would smell like bread again.

Person came back with cotton hair and a crooked scar. A crooked eye and a crooked smile.

Person has a tilt now.

Person has a tilt that he walks with, talks with, eats with. A tilt in a dead eye and a tilt on his neck just a little wrong. A pause in his paws just a second too long.

The teeth on his crooked body are sharp and shining like the shine of oyster shells.

The crooked claws on his crooked paws are sharp and dark like dog paws.

His legs sway and he smiles into the tilt as he leans into it like it was only natural.

Person came back, and he was crooked like her.

* * *


	8. The Hum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Hum is a name often given to widespread reports of a persistent and invasive low-frequency humming, rumbling, or droning noise not audible to all people. Hums have been reported in the United States, United Kingdom, New Zealand and Canada, and are sometimes named according to the locality where the problem has been particularly publicized, such as the "Taos Hum" in New Mexico and the "Windsor Hum" in Ontario._
> 
> _The Hum does not appear to be a single phenomenon. Different causes have been attributed, including local mechanical sources, often from industrial plants, as well as manifestations of tinnitus or other biological auditory effects._

* * *

Someone hovers in the kitchen, just out of reach of the blinded lens covering his dead eye. He doesn't look up from the dishes in Steven's sink.

"The thyme is in the cabinet, Connie, not the spice rack."

The sound pauses for a moment, before shifting elsewhere and walking away with a quick thanks.

It's not until he's already gone that he realizes she probably should have thought it was weird, that he knew what she doing without looking at her.

He'd forgotten it was weird, too.

(He'd just... forgotten.)

=<>=

He'd forgotten how loud humanity was.

Or maybe he'd never known it.

He hears streetlights and the sputtering growl of car racers at night. He hears the crunch of asphalt and the rustle of leaves underfoot.

He hears the breathy sigh of air in a human voice. The shift and idle that Gems never had, but humanity always, _always_ does.

He hears the click of smartphones, he hears car radios just out of reach, _he can hear people's bones crack under their skin sometimes._

He hears the TV in his parents' living room, left unattended for little more than a second.

He hears the static ring and crunch against his ears, and turns it off before his mom comes back from the kitchen with tea, ten seconds later.

* * *


	9. The Reading Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some days, y'know, it's not so bad.

* * *

He sees dust hang in the sunlight. It scatters, as if it were alive. Maybe it is, the way it hangs on glass and mirrors.

It's kind of funny, the things he sees now.

...Pink diamonds aren't actually pink.

Well, they _are._ It's just there's- there's no _color_ inside them to make them pink, it's an illusion of structure and pressurization and _light._

Steven is not pink.

He's pink and then he's... _something else_.

Lars' dead eye twitches and Steven is pink, until he's not. Steven is pink- pink and nacre and opal and capiz. Pink, warped lifeblood under the lens of an immortal starkiller, stealing all the colors of the sky and crossing into cerise.

Pearlescence shines on the edge of human vision, dancing along his skin. Claws and fangs swim with Diamond's aura. Tusks curl unforgivingly in the far back of his mouth, daggered and crystal.

Eyes like pine, eyes like obsidian, eyes dark as night and painted with starlight. Black diamonds, nothing and everything.

Asteria Diamond is a flawless diamond, chimeric cosmic horror, a prismatic mirror of unearthly colors not quite contained within the cage of his body- and if one looks close with a Gem enough eye, they might see where the cage isn't enough.

Lars' dead eye moves, and for a moment- barely even that- he sees, as Gems do, the entirety of what Steven is. 

Suneater. Paragon. _Radiance._

A radiance so blinding that eyes forget to see. That a heart forgets to beat.

(As though it were blasphemy. As though the idea that such a thing could ever be rendered, that sound could exist in its presence, was a sacrilege in and of itself.)

How _could_ he say it?

(But greater still, how _couldn't_ he?)

"... _My god,_ " he barely dares to breathe, " _you're beautiful._ "

His words glance along a freckled face. A strike of cerise streaking under diamond eyes, rich browns scattered with all too many colors and the dizzy song of shocked laughter just a little too weightless in its footsteps as it walks him home.

* * *


	10. Three Strikes, And "Honey, I'm Home!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~~Don't remember it, don't return to it.~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accessibility warning for vision or reading impaired: this chapter contains minor passages with exotic formatting. These are deliberate stylistic choices and are not intended to be visually/verbally coherent.

* * *

"-you don't think he's sick, do you?"

"No, no, he hasn't gotten sick for _years_. Not since..."

"...I know. But he's been acting so _odd_ , lately... he's been getting all those headaches, he _hardly_ ever sleeps any more."

"Does he even need to sleep anymore? What _does_ he even need anymore?"

"I... I don't know. I don't know."

"And he's been moving a little off, too... you don't think something might have... ̶̢̱͕̩̆̔͗̔̂͑ ̵̮̖̘̙͖̝̼̟͍̳̪̻̟̏̑̑̀̀̏̏͗̔͐̚̚͝͝ͅ ̶̨͇̬͖͖͉̪͍̖̺͚̑͗́͛̏͜ ̷̡̡̛̯̥͖̭̥̪̯͉̜̳̈̿̊̐͐̚̕͠͝ ̷̹̜̭͉̮̥̯̲̦͆̈́͘̕ ̸̧̛͕̠̹͇̯͔̣͍̰̘͛͋͛̓̀̏̈́̚͠͝ ̸̙̑̽̓̍̌͠͝ ̵̢̯͔̹͚̞̺͊̓̽̓͒̐͌̈͐̓̒̕͜͝ͅ ̵̟́͆̇͛̄̓͌̋̋͋̈́͜ ̸̡̤̜͕̮̥̰̩̞̲̲̠̞̈́̌͌̃̾̌͋̓͋͜ͅ ̴̢̩̪̣̺̣̥̝͚̖̜̹̈́̑͑̈́̎̓̀̈́͗̾́͂͘̚͜ ̵̜͇̲͍̮̽̌̚͠ ̴̹̑͠ͅ ̸̜̦͎͍̙͓̳̖̼̳̞̣͍̉͌̑͊̿͜ ̴̨̮͈̯͎̦̰̗̐̽̉́̅͆͛̚ͅ ̷̰̙̥́̾͗̓̋̉͂̿̐̈́̍̕͜͝ ̵̨̡̛̛̫̗̣̭̟̼̽̌̈́͆̎͝ ̶͚̈́̆̿̌̽̈́͐̇͑̾̇͋͘͠ͅ

L̵̡̛̖̗̙̹͎̣̦̣͎̩̥̃͛͊͌ŏ̴͈͍̈́̍͆͛͒̄̀͌̍̉̌́͝n̷̡̢̛̮͕͉͎̬̹̠̲̫̭̬͙͂̓̏̑̂̒̍͜g̸̫̬̔̂̋͂̂̌̚ ̷͓̰͔͎̋̑͐̍̽̕̚͠ṫ̷̥͙̲̈́̈̽̏̏̋̂̈́̃e̷̮̦͇̎̈́̐̉͋̎́͐̃̾͂̕̚͜ͅȓ̷͇m̸̢̢̨̧̮͖̙̖̹̻͓͎̹̃̏̇̇͂̆͊͘ ̵̘̗̤̬͈̭͚͖̯͙̻͍͓̽̕ë̵̡̢͚͙̳̻̫́͑̽f̷̢͓̙̰̰̜̘̪̞̦̘̟̺̲͌̈́̋̆͗̏̋̕f̸̛̛͖̹̗̀̑͂͒̔̏͐̕e̷͓͋́͆̚c̴̢̧͈̻͇̦̱̤̲̙͛͋̐̓͗̊͌̕t̴̜̝͉̣̏͋̀s̴̗͎̘̀͋̌̽̃́̿

t̸̰̬͆͋̈̚̕h̵̛̛̙̮̠̆́́̓̑͗̄͗̊͛̓̇͝ě̴͕͍̩̘̻̻̆̎͛̉ ̸̡̠̯̮̙͇̲̙͇̲̭̏͛̆͐̎̽̽̂̽̌̚͝e̵͕̬̫̻͙͍̱͒̈͛͊͌̋͂͘͜x̴̢̖̟͍̤̩̜̍̽̔̈́͆̀̉̊͌͘͠t̶̡̢̬̥̞̙͚̗̱̰̝̫̗̓ͅḛ̸͖͖̱͍̘̫͇̺͈̖̲͇͂̂͑̒̈́͗͂̓͋͘n̸̻̂͑̈́̓̋͐t̷̛̯̙͓̜͕͇̰͓̜̓͐̊̾̂̋͊͛͆̊͝ ̸̡̡̧̧̧̝̠͚̊͗̊͑̚ö̴̢̙̩̼̞̼͇̗̙̫́͒̒̽̇̕f̴͉͇̬͎͉̱͍̝̼̳͚̦̤̘͋͝ ̵̡̗͚̮͍̣̣̘̝͉̈́̈́͒̑̃͋͌̚̚͜t̵͕̆͂͊͌͊̐̓͗͒͝h̸̦̠̱͍͙̩̮̙̙̣̫̼̞͊̽̂̒̒̐̃̕ȇ̸͇̩̽̂̐̈́͛͑̌̔͗͘̕͝ ̶̰̩̮̤̱̜̭̆̑̇̐͊̾̉̆͑ͅḯ̷̦̙̍͊̒͑͗̍̉̽͒̚͝͠͝n̶͕̽̎̾̈̌̓̉͘j̴͖̗̿̐̌͊̄̐̚͝͠͝͝ų̵̲̖̭͙̹̋̊͒̋͊̓r̴̲͙̻̦̬̜͖̃̒͆̑̎͊̾̚į̸͉͇͚̫͔̊̀̉̎̈́̋̈́̚͝͠ḙ̶̲̭̟͙̼͎̙̠̰̇͒̇͋̈́̉͋̏͐͜͜ṡ̶̖̳̻̻͔̩̥̖̲̫̂̈́̆̆̇̏̊̕̚̚

M̵̱͒̍̐a̸̙̒r̵̪͝t̷̢̫̠̋h̶̻̑̏̈́ͅa̴͓̞͌,̵̘͍͈͌ ̶̺̖͐̈́̿p̷̡̍͑̈́l̷̡̫̆͂͂ͅe̶̤͒͐̚a̴̫̪̝̔s̸͕̜͋ḛ̵̢̱̎,̷̼̟͚͌̀̓ ̸̰̞̉y̸̺̑̂ȏ̸̩̞͝͝u̸̼̟̬̓̌ ̴̭͇̈̈́͠k̵̙͒͝ͅṉ̸̊̑͘ọ̶͂w̶̝̒͊̕ ̷̝̓͘h̷̜͖̔e̸̲͐ ̷̲̅̈́͜d̸͓̟̳͆̅i̷͕̝̯͊͗d̶͍̈͜͠ ̵͔͋͋t̶̡̯͎̅͝ḣ̵̛͍̫̫e̴̙̤̭͛ ̸͓͊b̵̝̹̙e̶͉̥͆̿s̵̥̍͛͝t̴̤̼̗̂ ̵͕̥̆̏t̴͕̹͑̚h̵͗͐̊͜a̷̯͉̼ṭ̴̈́̑ ̷̘̻̈́h̷̡̹̏e̷͚̹̐̓ ̵̤̓ͅc̷̤̗͆ō̴̳̤̎̚û̷̲l̵̲͈͚͑d̵͙̰̩̈́̈́

in his brain?"

"Should we talk to Steven about this?"

"Is that something you really want to _bring up_ with him?"

"I just think he'd know better than anyone-"

"Oh, give the poor man a rest, Dante, ( **you know)** he feels awful enough about the whole thing as it is-"

[YOU.]

[YOU KNOW.]

[ ~~YOU KNOW HE FEELS AWFUL ENOUGH ABOUT YOU AS IT IS.]~~

Lars turns back to the door just so he can slam it shut a little harder. "I'm home!"

"Oh! Lars! We didn't make you wait around in the hall, did we?"

"No," he lies, "I just got back."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With that note, wait for the sequels, _Cowards' Quartet_ and _Death Not Found_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments, critique, your eternal suffering, and kudos all equally welcomed.
> 
> Join the Discord server for behind the scenes nonsense, yearning questions of my questionable literary choices, and future stories. If you want more ways to support our work, you can find it on said discord or on my twitter!
> 
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> 
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